


warmth (and its variations)

by ghostieboyo



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Coming Out, M/M, Post-Canon, also donalbain/omc but like background, anyway the plot is they drink and theyre dumb and gay, i had google maps for scotland open in the next tab, if no one will fill this tag ill do it my fucking self, post canon modern au aka my specialty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 04:12:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17358710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostieboyo/pseuds/ghostieboyo
Summary: A few years after the events of the play, Macduff and Malcolm have a sort of routine going.





	warmth (and its variations)

**Author's Note:**

> folks im gonna be real i wrote this in 4 hours because i got irrationally angry at the nearly empty malcolm/macduff tag like thats my Motive

“I’m looking into adoption,” Macduff said in his living room, matter-of-factly, as if it were a regular conversation topic during their drinking nights and not a major decision at all.

Malcolm’s drink went down the wrong pipe and he choked. “Sorry, what?” He said in between coughs.

“I want a kid.”

Malcolm and Macduff had taken to what they lovingly referred to as drinking alone with company. As it turns out, the king of Scotland and a man that’s been officially regarded as a war hero can’t really casually go to pubs, so… One night Macduff swayed into the throne room with a stupidly expensive bottle of tequila and a whole lot of venting to do. And a week or so later Malcolm returned the favor by driving himself an hour away just to talk and drink beer on Macduff’s balcony. And it just sort of became a thing—they’d sit and drink and hear each other out, away from the public eye. Usually, they’d try to bring up topics the other didn’t know about, instead of dwelling on their shared experiences; it’d start with “I learned how to tie every type of knot when I was ten” and end with both of them entirely stupid drunk and laughing on the floor about some convoluted joke they couldn’t remember the beginning of.

Save for the first night, it was never that serious, never that real, never “my dad used to…” or “I remember when my wife…” or “when the kids would….” It was never, ever something they talked about, never something they actively tried to tie into a conversation. They liked to prevent casual drinking from turning into sad drinking.

Which was why Malcolm was just a little bit scared.

“Oh?” He said, palms pressed to the ground.

“When I was at university,” Macduff started, “I had this whole plan. I’d get rich and adopt teenagers still stuck in the foster system, and do all that… parent-y stuff that they need, like giving them care and attention and affirmation along with being able to feed them and clothe them and send them to school if they wanted,” He paused, “I thought I’d wait for my own kids to get older so I could have practice first, you know? But I guess that didn’t work. So maybe I should just start now.”

“If you want a teenager, just hang out with Donalbain,” Malcolm said.

“Isn’t he like 25?”

“And he acts a decade younger.”

“Malcolm, I’m serious.”

Malcolm shifted uncomfortably. He understood that, of course he did, and it’s not like he _didn’t_ want to jump up and hug Macduff and tell him how kind and selfless of a person he is—he did, he really, really did. But talking about this somehow felt like he was involved, like he should be mentally preparing to care for this hypothetical kid as well, and he couldn’t quite pin down why, and he didn’t know if he wanted to.

“I know,” He said, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“What?”

And then there was the other thing. “Is it too soon for you?” He didn’t bring up why, but it sat there, thick in the air and making it nearly unbreatheable.

“It’s been two years.”

“You’re not answering me.”

“I don’t know, alright?” He said, and took a swig, and it was officially sad drinking now. “My therapist says I should move out first. Memories and all that—too big a house for too small a man. Maybe I should.”

He tried to make the conversation a bit lighter. “Hypothetically, if you were to, I’m requiring you to enlist my help. No movers or anything. I’ll rent one of those trucks and we’ll carry all your stuff onto it ourselves and drive it down.”

“Like the common folk?”

“Like the common folk.”

A small, breathy laugh and a long pause. “How about next month? I’ll find a place and we can throw a whole two-man party about it.”

He kind of hated the idea, actually. Not that he was mourning the loss of Macduff’s estate or whatever, it was absolutely his choice, but it just felt like he was abandoning Malcolm, or at least he was being a little impatient. He didn’t know what for. He started to feel a bit queasy, and it didn’t seem to come from the drink.

“Sounds great.” He said, grinning, and just like that they went back to casual drinking again.

 

\---

 

The next time, about a week later, it was all Malcolm’s fault, and he was too far gone to blame himself.

“Donalbain’s gay,” he said as soon as he finished pouring their glasses.

“What, your brother?”

“No, that fellow who runs the flower shop on Main Street—of course my brother, idiot. My brother’s gay.” Malcolm’s face heats up for all the wrong reasons—it looks like anger, but he just pouts on the floor and pulls his knees up. “I’m the King of fucking Scotland and my brother the prince is gay.”

It’s not like he was expecting Macduff to get it, anyway. “Do you have a problem with that? Did he say you could tell me?”

“He said I could tell you and I don’t have a problem but—”

“Then why are you acting like an asshole about it?” Macduff was visibly tense, and Malcolm almost wanted to ask him to let go of his glass before he broke it in his hand. “So Donalbain’s gay. So what? I thought you were perfectly fine with him being transgender, so what’s with the selective—”

“You’re not getting it, Macduff.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I’ll put it this way: neither of us are going to have an heir.”

He waited for it to sink in.

Macduff slid down against the wall and sat on the floor next to him. “So, you’re either unrealistically insecure about finding a wife, or you and your brother have something in common.”

Malcolm buried his head in his hands.

“I take it to be the second one, then.”

He nodded, uncurled himself, and chugged the rest of his glass, just to give himself a justification for the burning sensation he had.

 

\---

 

The story so far:

Donalbain brought home his lovely boyfriend from Ireland, who up until then Malcolm had no idea existed. Which was fine. He was a dark-eyed, dark-skinned man, aspirational and tough but soft around the edges—the kind of guy who’d help Donalbain bleach his hair (side note: Malcolm felt the blond was indicative of a secret jealousy towards him) and hold him when he had nightmares (which happened more often than he would admit) and the kind of guy who would easily peel away his thin layers and talk about his fears, worries, dreams, thoughts (and the reality was that Malcolm didn’t want to think about who he was starting to do that with). Donalbain and Clem were happy, and that was the problem. And it was even more of a problem because that wasn’t the problem at all.

“Okay, you’re being weird and I don’t like it,” Donalbain said when they’re alone one day, “So talk to me.”

“I love you so much my dearest, favorite brother—”

“I’m your _only_ brother.”

“—but I’m busy doing kingly duties and all. Ruling a country and all that!”

“Alright, figurehead.” He said and threw his legs over the side of the couch, “But even though I wish I didn’t sometimes, I _know_ you. And you’re being weird. And I know you’re barely busy today, you’ve been on Instagram for thirty minutes.”

“How do you—”

“You wear your big stupid hipster glasses around me, I can’t look at you without seeing your phone’s reflection.”

On cue, his phone lights up with a series of texts. He rolls his eyes at his brother and checks his messages.

 

_From: Macduff_

_12:13: You know Tuesday when I was upset because I thought you were being homophobic?_

_12: 13: I just thought I’d tell you why I was quick to it._

_12: 13: I’m bisexual._

_12: 14: Only three people know that, and one’s dead. So consider yourself special._

_12:14: Not that it’s anything to be ashamed of. I just like to stick to myself sometimes, yeah? What I’m saying is, I get some of it. Talk to me if you need. :)_

 

“Don’t try to ignore me, I can still tell you’re weird. It’s not the normal kind of awkward weird either,” Donalbain said, “You’re upset.”

 

_To: Macduff_

_12:18: first, i can tell how difficult it was to put in an emoticon in there and im proud of you but that was a little unsettling and maybe you should stick to soulless texts instead, i was wrong!!! I was very wrong_

_12:19: second, thank you. really, thank you_

 

 _Third,_ Malcolm added in his head, _I’ve made a huge mistake._

“I’m gay, Don,” He announced, stood up, and left. Donalbain stared for a second and scrambled after him.

 

\---

 

Macduff was following up and moving out. And that was fine, that was perfectly fine. He was selling his expensive estate fit for a whole family and then some and moving into a nice little apartment that he surprised Malcolm with because he said he was renting it. “I feel like renting’s a sort of purgatory. I’m just waiting for what’s going to happen next. I’m still pretty young, after all, it’s alright to have a bachelor pad, yeah?”

What was more surprising, however, was that he was moving out of Fife.

“I just want a change, I think,” He said, and Malcolm helped him carry the few bits of furniture and boxes he’d be taking and let him make fun of his lack of muscle and didn’t mention that his new address was barely ten minutes from him. He kept a straight face and his mouth shut, and it was alright because he said it was.

 

\---

 

“Have you thought about dating again?” Malcolm asked in the afternoon one day, when their more frequent nights start to begin earlier in the day.

Macduff didn’t look at all taken aback. “I’ve been on a few, actually,” He answers simply, “Didn’t work out. Why, you offering?” Then, after he caught Malcolm red-faced, he added a stilted, “I was joking. Don’t worry.”

And that’s exactly what worried him.

 

\---

 

“Can you not be a horrible person,” Malcolm asked, barging into Donalbain’s room (after knocking—he didn’t want to walk in on something he won’t unsee), “For two seconds.”

“Well, now that _r_ _eally_ depends,” Donalbain responded, and he figured that’s good enough of an answer to warrant screaming into a pillow.

“I like someone, and it’s a horrible, horrible idea.”

“ _Like?_ How old are you, twelve?”

“I’m a fully functioning adult human man,” Malcolm said, and threw his face into the pillow again, knowing it was a lie.

 

\---

 

 _This is a stupid, stupid, stupid idea,_ Malcolm thought, and it was: it was the kind of dumbassery that was rolled up in a fresh coat of drunkenness like a pig in a blanket.

Or at least, that was the best way of explaining why he was letting Macduff make out with him as he was pressed gently against his living room wall. His best way of explaining why that _hurt_ for him. Why it felt like he was on fire.

It was meant to be a normal night: Macduff came over, they drank, it got emotional but the kind of emotional that wasn’t specific to anything, but just left unsaid words lingering like dust in the sunlight. At some point Macduff just leaned over and closed the gap, and he couldn’t remember any specific lead up. It just happened, and he wrapped his arms around him and let it.

But. Macduff was probably drunk. If not very, enough to not be second-guessing his impulses. So Malcolm stopped him with hands pushing on his shoulders and said, “I’ll call you a cab. You need to go home.”

Macduff looked… well, it was hard to describe. “Malcolm, I’m not that drunk.”

“You’re drunk enough to regret your decisions later.”

“I’m not.” He said, which somehow made it worse.

“For the sake of my sanity,” Malcolm wished to him, “Please, please tell me you are.”

Because at the heart of all of it was something he was absolutely not in control of, and something he couldn’t help but feel guilty for: he didn’t want to make everything worse. And he didn’t know if Macduff was really okay.

 

\---

 

_From: Macduff_

_14:50: Hey._

_14:51: My place, 2hrs_

_14:55: Please?_

 

_To: Macduff_

_15:09: okay_

 

\---

 

Malcolm didn’t know why he was waiting, hood up, outside Macduff’s apartment. The text had been different than the usual ( _“You free tonight?”_ ), more of a command, and something about it made him entirely accepting. He could do it. He could get this talk over with and be through with it, and it’d all go back to normal.

Anyway, he thought it would be alright until Macduff answered the door in a tuxedo.

“Don’t ask,” He said, grabbing Malcolm’s hand and pulling him inside, “I’ll show you.”

He’d turned off all the overhead lights and instead let string lights trail the walls of his living and dining room, giving the place a soft, warm glow. Over the dining table was a simple white tablecloth, and on it lay a perfectly set table for two, food already on the plates (it was simple: smoked salmon with salad on the side) and it was… candlelit.

“It’s not the best,” Macduff said when Malcolm couldn’t speak, “I’m not a chef or anything, so I went easy.”

“Is, is this for me, or some hot date you’ve got later?”

“Well, hopefully both.” And Malcolm felt his face heat up—he didn’t think the dim light helped hide it enough. “When I kissed you last night, I realized i didn’t really make my intentions clear. I was sober enough to be thinking coherently, by the way. So, uh. I’m taking a leap of faith here.” He waited for an interjection and continued. “I know you’re not out to like, the whole world, and even if you were or you weren’t widely recognizable the chance of being shot down in a public restaurant would be mortifying, so, here we are. And you can run away screaming at any time if you feel the need, but. Generally what I’m saying is you should go out with me. Or stay in, if you want to be technical about it.”

“I want to do all that stuff with you,” Malcolm said, and actually put his hand to his forehead in realizing how stupid it came out, “I mean I. I want to come out, and go on public dates and all, and I want you to stop renting and move in with me, and I want to adopt kids together and help them out and _wow_ this is coming off way, way too strong. I’ve just been thinking about it for a while and—I was worried you weren’t ready.”

“I don’t know how many more hints I could have been dropping that I was.”

He groaned and pulled at his hair. “In retrospect, I’m an idiot.” But he couldn't realistically stay upset at himself, not when something warm was rising in his chest. Instead, he paused to consider his outfit. “God! I’m wearing a fucking hoodie, I wasn’t told a dress code!”

“I can change, if you’d like,” Macduff offered.

“No. You’re wearing that for the rest of your life if I have anything to say about it.”

“You want me for that long?”

He made an embarrassed noise. “Can we eat before I incriminate myself?”

 

\---

 

They were both a lot better at kissing with calm and sober minds, as it turned out.

**Author's Note:**

> :-) say hi! no one talks to me about these two
> 
> lifeisdear.tumblr.com


End file.
